The Kinsmen
by Dyinghands
Summary: The story of the Great Unrest and all events leading up to it. (First story.)
1. 1

**Years ago**

"Father!" Malcolm whined. "Let me see!"

"Quiet, Malcolm." Their wood floor creaked as Father paced. In the upstairs room, Malcolm heard his mother's screams, but was not perturbed. Mother had said everything would be fine, and Malcolm believed her. Mother had never lied to him before, nor had Father, nor had Grandfather or Grandmother, not even Aunt Linay. But Malcolm was very curious as to how the baby would be getting out of his mother. Her belly button?

At his birth, Mother and Father had needed a mage, as they often told him. He'd never met the mage. Malcolm had thought that the mage would return for the next baby being born, but she didn't come. That was probably why his mother was hurting so much.

"Is the baby going to be like me?" Malcolm asked Father. Father didn't respond. The next time Father walked by, Malcolm grabbed Father's leg with his big hand. Father nearly tripped. He whipped his head to look at Malcolm, cross.

"Malcolm, what did we tell you about using your hand!?" Father demanded. Malcolm let go.

"You didn't answer!" Malcolm protested as Father picked him up and put him in an armchair.

Father stood back and folded his arms. "That's no excuse. What did you ask?"

"I asked if the baby's going to be a mutant like me?"

"No. They're not going to have any special powers." Father stroked his beard. "They're not like you."

"Oh." Malcolm felt sad. It would have been a lot of fun to have someone he could wrestle with. "None at all? Is that bad?"

"It's not bad or good, it's...normal." Father stated with a frown. It was hard to hear him over Mother's screams.

Malcolm sometimes wondered if Mother could read his thoughts, like if she was an actual mage, and that was how she knew when he was getting into trouble. He wondered if Mother read his thoughts this time too, because she stopped screaming. Father went stiff looked up like he was trying to look through the ceiling, like he was also an actual mage.

They could both still hear her heavy breathing. Malcolm heard the midwife say something he couldn't hear. Father rushed up the stairs. Malcolm didn't know if he wanted to see anymore.

Father ran into the upstairs room. He forgot to close the door behind him, and Malcolm could see the light from the room from his chair. Malcolm got off the chair and went to the stairs. He could hear Father and the midwife talking quietly.

Then, it screamed.

Mother said something and Father laughed. Malcolm rushed upstairs. It smelled strange upstairs, but he kept running. He ran to the room and crashed the midwife's white dress. He looked up, and for a moment her face was sharp, like an eagle's. He gulped.

Her eyes sparkled, and her face lit with mirth. "Go and meet your brother," she said.

Malcolm ran past and into the room, where Mother laid on the bed. Her hair stuck to her face in clumps and she was still breathing heavy. Father sat beside her, cradling something bright reddish pink.

Malcolm ran up, put his hands on Father's leg and looked close at it. It was a lot smaller that Malcolm thought it would be. He couldn't ever have been that tiny and fragile. Tiny cries came from its wrinkled mouth, and its eyes were closed.

"Is he okay!?" Malcolm asked.

Father laughed. "He's fine, Malcolm."

Malcolm grinned. He wanted to touch the baby, but didn't want to hurt him. "What's his name?"

Mother turned to him, a weak smile creeping up her face. Father handed the baby back. The baby stopped crying.

"His name is Duncan," Mother said. "He's perfect."

 **Present Day**

It was summer on the island when his mother died.

Keldor supposed he should have remembered more than that. Remembered her grip on his hand, the look in her eyes, or the smell of her hair as illness claimed her. However, he only vaguely understood that these things had happened. They were mentally remade images to which he had no emotional attachment. He remembered barely anything of his mother's passing, but he remembered the island. The smell of salt on the waves, the heat crashing down and tanning his skin indigo. Sand in his toes, sand in his hair. Sunset turning the sand to the gold of Captain Miro's beard. Captain Miro's hand sheathed in a thick glove, one he would later learn to be the military standard for swordsmanship. That day was the last day he saw his island. The first day he saw something more.

He had peered out the backseat window of Captain Miro's ship, hands pressed against the glass and wooden swords in his lap as the world moved by faster than Keldor thought was possible. It was humid, and roar of the engines was deafening, but Keldor couldn't contain the grin that spread across his face. His mother had been sick a long time. In some strange way, he was relieved that she was finally gone. And with her passing came a new era, promises of grandeur, fighting mythical creatures to protect the entire world. That village, the sun-bleached whale bones and inescapable feeling of grains between his toes, became a distant memory with every passing wave and every clatter of the ship's engine.

Years had passed since that moment, years that had changed him from a weak youth to a strong young man, but he still looked upon it fondly. Captain Miro's kindness and generosity lead him to where he was today, the most skilled warrior in all of the Elders' forces. Side by side he had trained with Miro's own son- A boisterous boy who grew to be his closest friend -and boarded in Miro's home, and the captain had never asked anything more than that he be respectful and hardworking. And both of those requests Keldor had fulfilled to the fullest. Emboldened by his gratitude, Keldor had always tried his hardest in every endeavor his captain ordered of him. Even the most menial of tasks he performed with passion. And so, Keldor rose among the ranks. Despite his strange appearance compared to the brown and peach skins of his fellow soldiers, Miro ignored racial disgruntlement and promoted him based on merit.

Keldor owed Miro a great debt. He owed proof that Miro's efforts had been fruitful. Most importantly, he owed Miro to do goodness, to protect and defend Eternia. Unbeknownst to his fellow soldiers, Keldor had a gift. He could summon energy from nothing, and he was getting good. He sought out ancient libraries in the Dark Hemisphere and studied from them. One day, he would be strong enough to quell all those who dared stray from the Elders' rule.

This was his destiny. And as the golden color of sunset on the sand crackled through his fingers, he smiled. Under his breath he whispered.

"I have the power."

* * *

AN:

Hello! I've wanted to try writing for a long time, and eventually I decided to stop being a perfectionist and just get on with it. I was inspired by Hooked's epic stories, as well as Sidekicks-Anonymous, Evelyn CMB, Airam2moons...okay, pretty much everyone. This is my very first story, so please leave feedback, criticism, or tips in the form of reviews: I will try to reply in the comments. Thank you for reading!


	2. 2

**Years Ago**

The stranger wore a pale turquoise cloak over another, longer, white cloak. He wore thick sandals with straps going up to his calves. And he wore armor, golden but darker than his golden hair and long beard, with a blue tunic underneath that matched his blue eyes. He was very tall and walked in a march. But most strangely, his skin was an unnatural shade of pink.

He was not from Keldor's island.

He had come in a steam-spouting, thick airship, the kind Keldor had only heard of. It was clear that he was a rich man to afford such technology. Most children had clustered about his landing site and followed him from a distance, speculating about his origins in an excited murmur. Keldor had never been one for such activities.

Instead Keldor hit a stump with his swords. He had two, identical to each other and wooden, carved by himself once he had learned skills such as carving, which he had taught to himself.

The stranger walked past by Keldor.

"Who are you?" Keldor called out once the man was a safe distance away. The man looked over his shoulder, eyebrows raised, then away.

"A traveler," he said, and continued walking.

The man stopped.

He turned around, and began to approach Keldor. Keldor turned to watch him warily. He reached into his cloak, and although Keldor stepped back and raised his toy in readiness, pulled out only a slip of paper, crisp and embroidered with intricate designs. He handed it to Keldor.

Keldor looked at the name on the paper. He swallowed the lump in his throat, then he looked back up at the man and nodded.

He led the man into a hut near the edge of the village, and into herroom. The shutters were drawn, making the entire room dark. Keldor crept to the edge of the bed.

Half tucked in, Keldor could smell sickness wafting off the woman. Her eyes were gooey and white, as though were filled with milk, skin gray. She gave a shuddering gasp and arched her back, her head thrusting deep into the pillow and her mouth opening like a fish. He heard the shuffle of a foot involuntarily stepping backwards. Keldor made no such flinch, and the woman fell back into bed.

Steeling himself, Keldor grabbed her hand with both of his and squeezed tightly. She did not react so he squeezed harder, digging with his fingernails. At last, a smile shuddered to her face and her head turned to face him.

"Keldor," she rasped, "Is that you?"

Keldor nodded.

She brushed his cheek with the back of her hand, and Keldor did not shudder.

"Stay outside," she whispered.

Keldor went outside, and continued his game. It had been coming for a long time now, and he had stopped feeling emotion over it.

Keldor wondered if he would have to go fishing with the others, the adults. He did not know them well. He and his mother kept to themselves, sold sweetflower to get by. It was not a difficult profession, but his mother handled most of it. He did not know how to do it on his own.

Keldor's vision blurred. He swung, but his arm went limp halfway through, and the blade bounced off the stump.

Wham.

It had hit him in the face. Hand shaking, Keldor reached to touch where it landed. It was scratched. Keldor threw down the sword, hardly caring if it broke. He needed it not; The time for playing with children's toys had long since come and gone.

Keldor turned away, and froze. The man from before was standing outside his home, watching him. For how long, Keldor didn't know.

From atop the hill, he called out, words lost in the distance.

Keldor turned his head to the wind to hear the old man better, ears pricked as best they could. He no longer wondered what the man's purpose was, and only wished at this point that he would leave, and take all his strangeness with him.

"What do you want?" Keldor cried. His fists clenched.

The man hesitated, and Keldor believed for a moment that whatever he had said was unimportant, that he would leave to find a less hostile one to talk too. Then, he raised his voice once more, hands cupped against his beard. "Come, boy!" he called. "I have an offer to make, one you wish to hear!"

Keldor debated whether he should go down the hill and find out what the stranger wanted. To give himself time to think, he turned away, and went to gather his swords. His mother's words, oft spoken, replayed in his head. 'Gar people keep to themselves.'

He slowly came down the hill, noticing as he did that he drew closer to the house all the while. He avoided looking at the thing, should he think of what it contained. He came to a halt in front of the strange man, and looked at him, taking in his clothing, beard, and sword at his side once more, before his gaze found the man's eyes, oddly colored and deep. Keldor's own narrowed.

The man must have understood, for he began to speak:

"You are talented with those swords, child. My name is Miro, and I rule the Elders' guardians. Your mother has passed away, and I have seen your talent. You are permitted to return with me to Eternos and train as a squire in the guard. You will have a place to stay and an education, so long as you work. This is my offer."

Keldor's mother was gone. He did not cry. He looked at his swords. One of them had a split down the middle from when he threw it on the ground.

Keldor dropped to one knee and bowed his head. He crossed the swords in front of his body—He knew not how a soldier acted, but this was as it seemed he should—And spoke firmly but silently. His hair, gratefully unbound fell before his face and hit it from the man.

"I pledge my allegiance to the Elders and their power." He spoke.

Miro was silent for a long time, so long that Keldor suspected he had left, before he spoke once more.

"Then rise, child. We are leaving."


End file.
